


the things she notices, the things she does

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Developing Relationship, Disability, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Touching, POV Phil Coulson, POV Second Person, Pain, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone notices her quiet support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the things she notices, the things she does

**[i.]**

There are these little things she does for you after it happens, that no one else notices because people are not used to noticing the little things Skye does.

She reads the same literature you do, she searches the web, watches videos with stories of people who have gone through the same thing, she drills Fitz and Mack for details on how the prosthetic works, she notices the way you don't like people asking if they can do something for you. She doesn't slow down for your sake because she knows you would hate that, she asks Andrew the questions it took you weeks to make because you were too afraid, and when you ask her "Why?" she shoves her hands in her pockets in a gesture from long ago – you notice – and she tells you "You'd do the same for me" and she is right.

 

**[ii.]**

It's not a myth, the way the weather affects you.

You shouldn't suppose you're an exception, even though you have been thinking you should be. Everybody does, the books and pamphlets and your analyst tell you.

They tell you:

You are not an exception.

(But you _will_ believe you are.)

You're waiting by the SUV, you and her, once the mission is over, impatient to go home. Waiting for the clean up, which isn't your job, for once. This morning you woke up with the top of your left arm feeling unusually stiff and you could feel it in the air, the kind of day it was going to be for you and your body.

Now: that odd, nausea-inducing moment when you can't tell if your arm hurts or if it's gone completely numb because pain and numbness have become hard to tell apart these days. It's different with the new arm. The salvaged nerve connections respond with a different kind of ache.

You try to hide it – for your own sake more than Skye's, really – wiggling your toes inside your shoes, bitting your bottom lip discreetely. There's almost a kind of relief in holding back, resisting the urge to just rub your arm, pinch the guilty muscles between your fingers. It's almost its own reward. You scratch the top of your neck for distraction.

Skye notices, she always notices.

"High humidity days suck, uh?" she says gently, companionably.

You stop twitching, you drop the hand to your side.

"It's actually the cold and humidity combined," you tell her.

She gives you a surprised, grateful expression, like she wasn't expecting that much honesty. She used to silence and misguided pride. She also gives you a nod and then, a thought crosses her mind quickly and then fades away, you see it form and be discarded in just a split of a second. She was about to tell you to wait inside the car and then she thought better of it. Both developments are touching.

"We'll be leaving soon anyway," she says instead, crossing her arms and leaning back against the vehicle.

"Yeah."

You start rubbing your arm openly. What does it matter, since she's going to notice anyway.

 

**[iii.]**

She is kneeling besides the couch, as you both inspect the sorry, disassembled state of your arm.

"Fitz taught me how to do it, but I don't have the tools here."

Skye gives it a little frown, fingertips gingerly touching the metal of yours. "I could try vibrating the pieces into place but I'm afraid of damaging it more," she says.

You shake your head. There is no immediate danger. "I think I'm out of commission until the extraction."

Skye doesn't ask if it hurts because she can always tell when it does.

It's not to bad, except you're not used to the dead weight anymore. 

There's not much in the safehouse, but at least it's dry – and warm, once Skye cranks up the heater with her newfound plumbing skills acquired through spending too many hours with Mack. "You'll want to take a shower," she explains, guiding you out of the living room with one firm hand on your back. "But be careful." Gesturing towards the hand. Remember: she was the first one to stop tiptoeing around it, of course she was. Mack would normally be the blunt one but not in this case, for obvious reasons. For a while Skye was the only one who talked to you about it – you didn't _talk back_ , you remember that too, it took a while – and the first one to grin at a bad pun you made about it.

Now it just feels normal. Like it's a part of the story. It sucks, but you survive it. You keep surviving it.

When you come out of the shower the living room smells of tomato.

"Soup," she says, throwing a glance over her shoulder. There are cans lined on the counter. "It's not going to be as great as the stuff you normally make me, but I'm trying."

You're out of commission so she's cooking. She notices the way you take pride and care whenever you cook for her and she wants to pay you back, let you know she appreciates it. She notices. She's been noticing all along.

Her back, how solid it looks, as she turns the spoon in her hand. So concentrated that for a moment you feel like a spy watching her, like she has forgotten you're in the room. There aren't many clothes in the house so she's found some sweatpants and kept the tank she wears with her field suit. A million domestic fantasies assault, when they're supposed to be gone.

Walking up to her, walking behind her in silence, knowing there's no way she doesn't notice it with her powers anyway, there's comfort in this idea, that Skye can move away or tell you to stop she wants, when you press your body against hers against the kitchen counter.

Your left hand is useless right now, hanging clumsily at your side, so you slide your right hand across Skye's hip until it comes to rest on her stomach, pulling her to you, holding her from behind.

She stiffens for a few seconds, and stops stirring, then relaxes her whole body against your chest. You can't see her smile yet – how do you know she's smiling? You just know. When she speaks again it's easy to hear it in her voice.

"I'm just warming up some soup from a can, Coulson," she says, the voice slightly amused at sudden impulsive show of gratitude and something else. "It's no big deal."

She always says that, always makes people think that.

It is a big deal, for you, as you bury your face into the crooke of her neck. She still smells of battle and power, of acrid sweat and heroism. You breathe, the chest rising and falling against the curve of Skye's back. You breathe and hold your breath to savor it more deeply the next time.

"I notice," you say against her hair.

"What?" she asks.

" _You_. I notice you."

 

**[iv.]**

Every piece of literature warns you; it never really stops, or fades away.

It's been a year and a half and the sudden intrusion of pain in your daily life is just as overwhelming as the first day. The fact that you know it'ss going to happen, the fact that you are familiar with the feeling, that means nothing.

There have been improvements since that first day, though, there's no denying that. And you would never change those improvements for having two hands again.

At least it's not often in the middle of a mission – it's not a paralyzing pain, not quite, but you dread the day it would push you to make a mistake, the day it makes you a split of second slower in the reaction. But that is mostly an abstract, unfounded fear. It's normally like this: in the middle of the night, with Skye snoring sotfly against your chest, and it spreads like ink on wet paper, it spreads with _precision_.

Skye wakes up, you apologize – in the darkness, where you can cover the fleeting, always-shocking, shame. The night becomes something else. 

She sits behind you in the dark, pressing her legs to the small of your back, using your shoulders for balance until she finds the right spot. She runs a loving hand across the shoulders first, a couple of times, to relax you as much as she can, to let you know she's here. Then, slowly, her hands settle on the bare skin, teasing the short hair on the back of the neck. Wincing at the contrast between her soft touch and the numbing, biting discomfort spreading through your arm, you wonder if one can be happy and in pain at the same time or if it's just Skye bending the laws of nature as she always does.

You feel every hardened spot on her calloused hands, the trigger finger, the heel of her hand, Skye's quiet perfectionism that takes people so long to notice, if they ever do, the pride you feel because you do, you did, soon. Her hands, so familiar for other, more private reasons, they are never any less shocking. Like the pain, it doesn't matter how long you've been doing this, the touch, whether meant to arouse or comfort you, is surprising _every time_. Maybe there's a balancing act going on, like the universe is sorry for taking so much away from you – except it's not quite a fair exchange, is it, the universe giving out too much here, you think, sappily, hopelessly, as your body moves easily into the spaces between Skye's hands, on its own accord.

She starts with the base of the neck, first. Because one the pain grips you the rest of your body goes still. She knows this, because once upon a time she noticed this. You never intended to hide anything from her, and once you started sharing a bed you discovered that you couldn't. The superpowers are a plus, so it took her very little to figure out what made you feel better, the frequency of the vibrations, how deep to go. She knows your body better than anyone before, any lover, better than yourself at times, because she is inside you, she reaches the bits no one else can.

She stats stroking your spine next, fingers gently spreading. She works hers way up your back and towards your left arm slowly. The pressure grows there, she knows she needs to get as close to causing pain herself for this to work. She listens closely for the moment the moans become something other than protest, a liquid noise at the back of your throat. She used to turn on the light to be able to do this, when it started happening, now she can navigate your body without looking at the map.

"Better?" she always asks.

"Much better," you always tell her.

Gratitude doesn't need a name between you two, now that your painful combined politeness has faded against a sense of familiarity, of understanding. She knows you're grateful for this; you know she believes you don't have to be.

She sits back against the headboard, pulling your body towards her. Spreading her legs so you can sit between them, your back comfortably resting against her stomach as she curls around you like she had no bones at all. Through trial and error you have found the best position together and now it's so easy, the pieces fit so well, your head resting against the hollow of her shoulder, and her heartbeat against your back always feels like standing on a beach and letting the waves kiss you up to your ankles. The rhythm lulling you to sleep.

Breathing against your hair, she lets you go. It's selfish, this knowing she'll be awake for a while now while she holds you, but it only happens once in a while. The shared knowledge that you'd do this for her, that you've done this for her, that you've guarded her nightmares the way she know guards your pain.

She runs her fingers up and down your arm, up and down, lighter and lighter each time they come up, each time they dart down, until it's a ghost touch, tending to an already-ghost pain, until you're asleep with her mouth pressed to your temple, until you're safe and good and whole.

The things she notices, the things she does.


End file.
